


But feel the strange heart beating where it lies

by CountlessUntruths (KaliCephirot)



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Drunk Sex, LOTS OF CONSENT, Multi, Rimming, canonical threesome scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 05:02:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11707362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaliCephirot/pseuds/CountlessUntruths
Summary: "Anyway, now-a-days, we'd just flip a coin for it," Margo says. "But we rarely like the same people anymore, like that." Or, a more detailed portrayal of the threesome.





	But feel the strange heart beating where it lies

They're drinking and telling stories. Well, Margo is, because Quentin did never learn the mystical art of being funny when telling his stories, it was always Julia who'd come to his rescue and... and he drinks some more, when he thinks about Julia, the space where he loves her aching and missing her and--

More booze.

So they're drinking. And Eliot isn't really talking much, his head on Margo's lap, half curled around her as if he was much smaller than he actually is, and Margo has an arm around El, as if daring the world to do something against him, and she keeps waving her other hand around, up until Quentin isn't even sure if the stories are real or not.

"This one time," Margo starts, and Eliot gives a ridiculous giggle against Margo's shirt in the kind of cuddle-knot-twist of a person they have become and Quentin is drunk enough that he kind of wonders if it's possible, if you press close enough, if you can sort of merge your skin into one and get stuck, to someone, for good, until loneliness would become just a myth.

"Bambi, we promised never to tell."

"Bitch, you literally told it two weeks ago as a cautionary tell on not wearking your best silk tie to--."

"Not in polite company, dear."

"Quentin isn't polite company, he's family." Margo deadpans. She looks at him in that scary-but-nice way of hers that makes it so that Quentin is never sure if Margo likes him or not. "Aren't you?"

"What?"

"See?" she says as if that proved anything and maybe it does because Eliot gives the same kind of high little giggle, pressing his face against Margo's belly and Margo looks victorious and regal even with the blush of too-many-drinks on her cheekbones. "Anyway. This one time. First year. A little after we became friends."

"You weren't always friends?" Quentin asks, because even after the getting his feeling back and the alcohol, that bit might be the weirdest part yet. He can't imagine a world where Margo and Eliot haven't always been thick as thieves.

Margo and Eliot untangle themselves a little from their be-eff-eff ouroboros (Quentin aches, thinking of Julia, in ways that he supposes will always hurt) to look at him. Eliot, already way drunker than he or Margo, waves a hand in the air.

"You know the rule, 'one bitch to rule them all', doesn't lend itself to making close friends precisely."

"Eventually we decided that college means that two can rule at the same time, so you can take turns while one of you has a hangover," Margo says with a shrug of her shoulders before her smile turns sharp and wicked again. "And speaking of turns..."

"We wanted the same dick." Eliot says, and so much for politeness, Quentin thinks, but he snorts and laughs and drinks some more. "Who, coincidentally, _is_ a dick. And his name is Dick. "

"Which was, perhaps, why he doesn't have much dick." Margo wonders.

"You're going to make the word lose all meaning," Quentin says with a giggle of his own. Both Margo and Eliot get the same kind of devious grin.

"Dick, dick, dick, dick..." Eliot sing-songs.

"Dickitus, digitus!" Quentin says.

"Isn't that from The Sword in the Stone?" asks Margo, her pretty face flushed.

"Sounds like my kind of hobbie," Eliot says, and Quentin almost snorts his drink through his nose and the three of them are laughing, and this would be so, so nice if it wasn't happening the day before they're all going to die.

But tonight is not about thinking that, so Quentin drinks some more and coughs around the scratchy feeling in his throat. 

"So. Um. Turns. You...?"

"We both wanted him, and neither of us wanted to give up. So we agreed to share. And this dick, who, by the way, is a jock--"

"Never forget, Q, clichés exist for a reason." Eliot says.

"We invite him for a threesome and he's all oh, yes, I'm the man, blah blah blah..."

"Which was already starting to be a turn off."

"And he's this closeted bi so he's giving us all this no-homo-I'm-doing-it-for-the-pussy-bro, even though he was way more into El than me, thank you"

"I barely licked him twice and he came." Eliot says with a grin.

Margo sighs, even when she seems to be fighting a grin. "We would have taken turns, maybe, but after that El and I were too busy laughing our asses off to even do a think about it." Margo shakes her head, her shoulder shaking with suppressed laughter..

Eliot sighs. "It's so disappointing when crushes are bad at sex."

"Anyway, now-a-days, we'd just flip a coin for it," Margo says. "But we rarely like the same people anymore, like that."

"An anti-friendship-boicotter system."

Quentin can't help himself, will blame the whisky he keeps drinking. "'Boy-cotter."

They laugh again. And Quentin wonders if this is where people, normal people, come out, wether here is where he should say that he considers himself bi even if liking boys and men has been, so far, more theoretical than practical, how there's only one person in the world that knows, and that's thinking about Jules again and Quentin wonders just how much alcohol you need to numb the ache of missing your best friend as if you had lost a leg. 

"Okay, kiddies, we've had enough, time for little Physical Kids to go to bed..." Eliot says, moving as if he was a cat to untangle himself from Margo's lap, all long legs and long arms and acting as if he was okay, and Quentin is a pro in that department but he doesn't know how to ask, how to say anything about it, when he also knows how sometimes you need to very firmly stay in that state of mind until you're ready to not be okay. 

And perhaps the alcohol wasn't such a good idea because Eliot tries to stand up and he tumbles and Quentin moves as fast as he can - which, bad idea, fyi, but he manages to setop Eliot from falling down and breaking his head into little humpty-dumpty pieces all over the floor. 

"Oh, well, hello there," Eliot says, his arm around his shoulders, leaning heavily against him. 

Quentin turns to look at Margo and mouths a 'HELP ME' at her, and Margo finishes her drink before standing up, and if it wasn't for her flushed face she would almost seem as if she hadn't had anything to drink at all. She moves to Eliot's other side with the ease and familiarity of best friends, and Eliot chirps a happy sounding 'my Bambi' as she wraps her arm around his waist.

"Okay, Eliot, here we go."

***

Margo's lips aren't as soft as they look like which, Quentin thinks, is a very, very strange thing to think about, when kissing someone as beautiful as she is. But it's the first thought that comes to his mind even as she's moving closer, as he's moving to hold her. Her lips are still lipgloss-sticky which, normal, but after that they're a little rough, as if Margo bit and pulled at her lips between her teeth often which for some unknown, drunk-ish reason in his brain, makes her more real than the Regina-George type of girl she sometimes seems like. 

The rest of her skin, however, _is_ just as soft and warm as it looks like. With the way she presses up close to him, her shirt rides up over her waist and Quentin has never ever been big enough for his hands to feel big against someone's waist but this time they *do* and she smiles against his lips.

("Ticklish, don't.") 

And then she's kissing him again, rough-soft-not-sticky-anymore-lips against his, and he feels the tips of her nails against *his* waist (also ticklish, he thinks of saying, but doesn't) as she pulls at his shirt and Quentin desperately wishes for the magical button to turn off his inner monologue to just let himself have this, whatever it might be, of Margo and him pulling his shirt off, throwing it somewhere behind him, maybe, and then coming into his arms again as if this was something that isn't, or the several reasons why this isn't something that should happen.

But he wants it so much, and Margo is so, so warm in his arms.

He doesn't hear Eliot waking up, not until he speaks--

("Should I...")

But Eliot doesn't finish, whatever it is he was going to say, looking at them. Looking at him, Quentin realizes. Eliot's wide open eyes on his eyes, lips, chest and up again and Margo stops kissing him, turning around and kneeling over the mattress so she can kiss Eliot, a different kiss than the ones Quentin has seen them share but also not like the way she was kissing him. It's softer, and not... something, that was there, with him, not in a bad way, he doesn't think, just--

Margo is taking hold of his hand and pulling him closer, slowly. 

Take turns, Quentin thinks. Sharing.

And Eliot is saying something to Margo but--

("Bambi..."  
"Shh.")

Eliot is still looking at him, and moving slowly towards him, like the tide or gravity, and he's letting him get close. Eyes on his eyes. On his mouth. Eliot, looking at him as if he was drowning and Quentin kind of feels the same, wonders about how different it might be to kiss a guy than a girl. How different will kissing Eliot feel from kissing Margo.

("Bambi, this isn't..."  
"Just kiss him, El.")

And there's a moment where Quentin thinks _he_ is trying to say something. Not something witty or clever, just some sort of reassurance that he wants this, that he really, really wants this because it seems important, with the way Eliot is looking at him, but then Eliot is kissing him and Quentin feels as if he was both breathing again for the first time in a while and as if he had lost the general capacity of breathing. He can feel Eliot's hand on the back of his neck, thin lips and a sharp jaw and he craddles Eliot's face and most of his inner monologue stops right then.

Quentin loses track of hands, and arms, and kisses: there are too many hands trying to take Eliot's shirt off, and then he's sure it's Margo helping him take off his pants but it's Eliot kissing him and Margo probably spelled off her clothes because after a blink she's naked and golden and gorgeous in his arms, and he's kissing her and feeling Eliot pushing him, gently, softly, so he's on top of her and Margo is moving, reclined against the headboard and her legs open for him.

He's not drunk enough for the scent of her not to make his mouth water. Margo is already wet, and she guides his head closer, and Quentin licks her fold softly at first, tasting her, and then more focused when her fingers tighten on his hair. He rubs his face against the soft skin of her inner thigh and then focuses his strokes against her clit. He thinks he hears a drawer being open, but then Margo moans, and he feels her shiver against his mouth and then he loses track for a moment when he feels Eliot's mouth against him, licking at his ass, breaching him open with the wet, insistent tip of his tongue.

Margo murmurs something ("Quid pro quo, Q") and she almost sounds like laughing, passing elegant, clever fingers through his hair with the kind of care he has only seen her give Eliot. It either breaks or sears something inside Quentin, that tenderness. He keens, thin and needy, and focuses on Margo again, letting her move him where she wants him, licking and sucking at her clit, feeling her thighs flexing, pushing towards his mouth. 

When he feelings Eliot's fingers pushing inside him he gasps, the slick on them there but also the burn-stretch of it new and unfamiliar. Margo makes a comforting sound, scratches his scalp, shushes him gently and Quentin feels Eliot kissing his lower back, hears his name in an almost reverent tone up until the burn-stretch of his fingers doesn't feel unwelcome. Eliot fucks him with his fingers gently, softly, and it's not until Quentin is moaning again that Margo pushes him again towards her cunt in what would make Quentin laugh, was he not busy, half wrecked, with this.

Quid pro quo, he thinks, so he reaches up, carefully, and slides two fingers into Margo's wet heat, feeling her fingers hold tight to his hair and feeling her shiver, and she moans his name, says yes, please, and he keeps licking at her clit until Margo whimpers and moans, her hand tightighttight in his hair until she comes, bucking against his mouth, tight and slick.

He's breathing hard, after that, hard enough that he considers rubbing himself off against the mattress, and then Eliot is kissing the back of his neck in what feels like almost an apology. Quentin turns around, almost falls off the mattress (Margo gives a breathless little giggle) and Eliot manages to help him stay put. Eliot's eyes are wide and huge and Quentin wants him so much he thinks he might die, a little, if they stop right then.

("Q..."  
"Please, El.")

And Quentin kisses him this time, just in case he thinks that-- that, something not true, something that doesn't belong here, trying to get Eliot closer to him, because he's sure he didn't misread this, this want, and he wants Eliot to know that he, well, basically, same. And he manages it, almost, or close enough. He feels Eliot shiver hard and then wrap his arms around him, and Quentin gets to feel Eliot's cock against his, as they lay down, Eliot between his legs, until Eliot kneels between them, pawing at the bed until he finds a small tube, then pushing his fingers inside him again, wet and careful and constant. Margo turns to her side, combing her fingers through his hair, giving him the same Eliot-smile than before.

("You do look very pretty like this, Q".) 

She kisses him again, and the very small part of his brain that is not focused on skin and kisses and hands and the need to come thinks that it would be nice, to get to know all of her different kisses, just like it would be nice to see more of this Eliot who looks at him and touches him as if he was almost a miracle. He hears the same drawer as before opening and when he turns to look at Eliot he sees him rolling a condom on, strocking his own cock, gasping, and Quentin _aches_ for him.

("Please..."  
"Q, are you..."  
"El, don't be a bitch to the poor boy. Begging is for third dates.")

And then Eliot is shifting, half pullhing Quentin into his lap and then-- it's almost too much, at first, and Quentin keens even as Margo shushes him, nuzzling against his neck, kissing his shoulder, and Eliot's hands are on his hips, his eyes on his face and he doesn't stop until Quentin can feel his hipbones against the back of his thighs. 

Eliot starts fucking him gently, carefully, and the oddness of that, of feeling so full, takes some of the edge of needing to come, but then Margo's hand wraps around his cock, stroking him on time with Eliot's thrusts, and Quentin reaches foward to bring Eliot closer and kiss him, moaning against his mouth and it doesn't seem to take long, not long at all, for the friction and the kiss and Eliot's cock moving inside him and Margo's hand on _his_ cock before he's coming, hard enough he feels Looney-Toon-stars exploding behind his eyes, shaking and trembling and moaning against Eliot's mouth when he feels him rock hard into him and then stop. 

Time gets fuzzier after that, between one blink and another. He hears Margo complain and feels Eliot move, stand up, then come back and fall face first between him and Margo, an arm over him and Quentin is half expecting Margo to make a quip, something about being glad that she allowed Eliot to keep Quentin, something about this, how this will be the new threesome story to tell around. But she just curls against Eliot's side, her head on his shoulder, and Quentin sees Eliot's face twist into a small, soft smile against the linens. 

There is something, a small voice inside his head, telling Quentin that he should go. But he's sleepy, pleasantly exhausted, and for the first time in a long, long time he doesn't feel wrong. He turns to his side, still holding Eliot's hand, and closes his eyes to sleep right where he is.


End file.
